


The Desperate And The Shirtless

by J_Baillier



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Bromance, Doctor!John, Drama, Friendship, Gen, Hints of Johnlock - Freeform, Humour, Illness, John Watson is a Saint, Johnlock goggles optional, Jumpers, Medical Condition, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sick Sherlock, Sickfic, There's a case in there somewhere, happens during season 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-22 00:11:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7410709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Baillier/pseuds/J_Baillier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Getting stuck on a small island during a storm with a sick and cranky Sherlock teaches John a few things about friendship and patience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting on my hard drive for a while - awaiting for the right moment! After the epic romance of "A Diseased Fancy" this felt like exactly what the doctor ordered. 
> 
> Time to take a quantum leap back to season 1. This is the story of how John & Sherlock's friendship took a step from mere flatshare camaraderie towards the deeper end of the pool.

  
  


John leans on a slightly rusty door hinge while dialing the number Sherlock has given him on the old bakelite landline phone. Drops of rainwater are dripping from the tips of his now spiky, wind-tousled hair down to the floorboards.

After a few rings, Mycroft Holmes picks up.

"Yes?" The elder Holmes brother's droll, polite tone inquires.

"It's John. Watson, that is."

"Evening. What can I do for you, Doctor?"

"Well you could get us off this bloody island for starters."

"I'm afraid that is neither possible nor advisable. Flights are impossible in this weather, nor is there boat transport available for that same reason."

John wonders if he is imagining or if there actually is a hint of amusement in the man's tone. "Look, if you're half as powerful as Sherlock seems to think, surely there's something you could do."

Mycroft Holmes coughs quietly at the other end. "I am but a civil servant, Dr Watson. I do not have control over the weather."

John draws in a deep breath. "What the hell did you mean, ' _not advisable_ '?" His tone is impatient and as far as he's concerned, righteously so.

"I admit I've resorted to some subterfuge here, John, but rest assured it was with the best of intentions. I was merely trying to avoid a meltdown of sorts."

John leans his fist on the small dining table that is serving as the reception counter of the farmhouse doubling as the main building of a bed & breakfast they're staying at. "Believe me, there is a meltdown happening right now. Sherlock's practically chasing his tail already."

There is a pause at the other end. The line crackles slightly - the storm is possibly wreaking havoc with the connection. A thunderclap is heard and then the lights flicker a bit until a flash of lightning briefly bathes the room in a ghostly blue light. 

"What do you mean, Dr Watson?" Mycroft asks. John can imagine him frowning.

John sighs, resigned, letting his glance roam around the room. He's the only one there, since it's late. "The case is a partridge in a pear tree - let me guess, _all your doing_. That's not the worst part. Sherlock's got a case of bloody _shingles_ of all things, which is driving him up the wall. There's not much I can give him to help, he's keeping half of the island awake and I'm pretty damned close to running out of viable entertainment options here."

"That is not my doing."

"I _know_ , but judging by what you just said, this is happening because you sent us here on what you know would be a wild goose chase."

"I suppose it would be safe to tell you the details at this point," Mycroft Holmes muses at the other end. 

John glances out of the window towards the small cottage his mad flatmate is probably currently going even more insane in. "Tell me _what_?"

"As you have deduced, there isn't a case. Not really. What Sherlock received was a carefully constructed, deliberately vague collection of intelligence tidbits assembled to look as though someone was building weapons of mass destruction in a remote location. The purposes of this cloak and dagger arrangement are threefold. First of all, it was to allow dear old Mrs Hudson to sort out the hole in Sherlock's wall. The old woman is far too kind-hearted for her own good. She could never put her foot down and force Sherlock to comply. Secondly, it is an early Christmas present since it allows Sherlock to avoid having to endure the parental unit visiting for the week. They do enjoy the commonest of tourist activities. Thirdly, you will see when you get back."

John is too tired this point to unleash the anger that's burning a hole in his stomach. It won't change the situation. "What hole in the wall?" he asks with a sigh.

"The one in the outer wall behind the curtain. It's causing the draft about which you have been complaining of late. It's clearly the reason Sherlock sleeps on the couch instead of his own room."

"Behind the curtain? Why hasn't he said anything?" John isn't surprised - he knows Sherlock well enough to know the man isn't very diligent in looking after their shared home, but a _hole in the wall_?

"He has not been forthcoming about the incident, but everything seems to point to an experiment mishap. Sherlock is operating under an assumption that such things might pose a risk of you terminating your current housing arrangement.

John curses under his breath. There had been an incident - that's probably the best word for it - involving another experiment gone wrong, some heated words exchanged, some yelling on John's part, which had lead to Sherlock retreating to his bedroom to sulk. The next morning Sherlock had been oddly timid and accommodating, acting as though John might explode again at the slightest provocation. John hadn't thought much of it - he'd chalked it up to early flatmateship nerves, that sort of thing. Still, he couldn't escape that thought that the incident had spooked Sherlock beyond of what could reasonably be expected. Why?

Mycroft clears his throat at the other end of the line and John realizes he's been silent for longer than is polite. "I happened to meet your landlady three weeks ago and she lamented the fact that Sherlock has refused to allow the repairs to be made. The wallpaper is going mouldy from the damp. I'll not allow such a health hazard to endanger his wellbeing. Sherlock does not take kindly to strangers disturbing his possessions, so I judged a covert operation of sorts to be a necessary course of action."

"You could have just asked me to get him out of the house."

"For several days? You are an abysmal liar, Doctor, and Sherlock is very, very good at spotting liars. As I was saying, he'd certainly hover while the workmen were trying to do their jobs, and likely many of them would quit before the work was done. I don't have time to rehire work crews on a daily basis."

This _does_ sound like John's flatmate of two months. Sherlock is strangely protective of his room, insisting on blocking the doorway when John tries to enter while carrying the man's laundry.

"He was like that as a child. Very meticulous as to where his belongings are at any given moment. Probably has to do with his----- _somewhat neurotic_ frame of mind," Mycroft explains quickly, and John gets the distinct feeling he had originally been about to say something else.

"Still, that is a bit of a grand plan just to get a hole in the wall fixed."

"Sherlock enjoyed Scotland as a child. I thought a holiday might do him some good."

"And I just got dragged along, no need to ask if I wanted to go?"

"You said yes to the case, ergo you said yes to traveling to your current location. As I said, the weather I do not control and his current health predicament is not my doing either. I'm certain your medical abilities will be of great help in said situation. At least Sherlock seems to have some confidence in them."

John's finger close into a fist. "Much good my doctoring will do, since I don't have any of my gear here, nor are there many medications available here. The only thing the local nurse had was some paracetamol and an expired bottle of calamine lotion."

"I'm sure a battle-hardened physician such as yourself can make do. Do give my regards to Sherlock." 

The call ends with a click and an occupied tone. John bangs the receiver back onto the old phone and marches out of the door back into the thunderstrom. 

 

 

**A week earlier**

They have been living together for two months. During this time Sherlock seems to oscillate between testing the outer limits of John's patience, and being the world's most inept and nervous host. It is as though he can't quite decide how to treat John - to relax around the man as though he was a family member, or with the politeness reserved for a neighbour.

Outside of home Sherlock is certainly not the polite type. During cases his frightening, steely focus takes over and sucks everything into cyclone Sherlock, who has no time for social niceties. He seems oblivious to the scorn and ridicule directed at him unless it comes from John. 

"You treat your friends like your personal servants," DI Lestrade had told Sherlock one rainy night when he had demanded John make his way to Baker Street and back all the way from Hampstead Heath just to fetch his scarf. 

Why he had complied with such a request, not even John himself really understood.

Sherlock had certainly fulfilled his prophecy of violin concertos at midnight, but the silences he had promised John when they'd first met never materialized. It is the polar opposite, really - when Sherlock first opened his mouth it was as though floodgates had opened. John sometimes wonders if having the skull on the mantlepiece as his only company for such a long time had made the man practically ravenous for human companionship. 

Sherlock seems genuinely perplexed by John's praise of his abilities and very appreciative whenever John explicitly states that he would like to do something with Sherlock outside of the cases. It tugs at John's heartstrings how low an opinion Sherlock seems to have of himself when it comes to others seeking his company out of enjoyment instead of necessity.

On a Sunday afternoon just after tea, Mycroft visits unannounced with a folder of intelligence data for the two of them to assess. After giving his big brother the obligatory nonchalant rendition of 'shoo, arch enemy', Sherlock eagerly grabs the folder and his face lights up like a child's at Christmas.

"Why us? Isn't this what the Coast Guard, MI5 and navy intelligence are for?" John asks while Sherlock peruses the contents of the intel package.

"Locals wouldn't talk to officials. I need someone to put the them at ease," Mycroft explains.

John's brows knit together. "At _ease_? Have you actually met your brother?"

Sherlock puts down the files, somehow looking determined and sceptical at the same time. He begins pacing around the sitting room. "It isn't much to go on" is his verdict. "Just a few radar pings and some vague allusions of suspicious family connections."

In John's eyes Mycroft looks quite smug. "I'm sure you can manage," he states dryly.

 

 

 

**5 days earlier**

John gets a chance to read the intel file when they are sitting in the small plane that is to take them from mainland Scotland to the tiny Cairn Isle located between Orkney and Shetland.

"You will enjoy Cairn Isle, John," Sherlock tells him and fidgets and twists in his seat like an earthworm.

"That sounds a bit passive-aggressive. ' _You WILL enjoy it_ '."

"You read too much into such things. As Mycroft said, even if we find nothing it'll serve as a holiday."

" _You_ on holiday, shorts and tan lines and drinks with straws and all that? Hard to imagine."

"Not _that_ sort of a holiday. Besides, the weather patterns this time of the year in these parts of the Atlantic make it likely that ---"

John focuses on the folder in his lap and lets himself zone out of Sherlock's lecture as the plane takes off.

When John has finished reading the file Sherlock is still fidgeting in his seat. 

"You're not nervous to fly, are you?" John asks. 

Sherlock shoots him a scathingly disapproving glance. "Hardly. Fearing air travel is illogical. The statistics are very much in its favour as compared to traveling in cars." He arches his back as though trying to press his shoulder blades as hard as possible against the seat.

"Sit still, that's getting annoying."

"I think I have a shirt label chafing into my back. Highly irritating. Must cut it out once we get to Cairn. As a matter of fact, I think we are already approaching."

John leans over Sherlock's lap since he's in the window seat, to look out the small, round plane window. In the distance John can make out the rocky outline of an island, the top of which is adorned with green fields like the icing on a cake. Sunlight is hitting the waves near the island and the whole of it looks beautiful and quite similar to the more southern Scottish isles John had visited as a child.

"I'm actually kind of surprised that you were so keen to go. You don't seem very likely to want to do anything your brother tells you to."

"You heard the man, John - the country needs us." Sherlock looks deadpan.

"I think he'd probably claim aliens landed in Hyde Park if that got you to do his bidding."

"Cairn Isle is famous for its knitting patterns. Perhaps you could find a new jumper to replace some of your hideous current ones," Sherlock suggests politely.

John sighs.


	2. Chapter 2

Accommodation has been booked for them in the only thing resembling a hotel on the island - a bed and breakfast side project of a local farmer family. Upon arrival, John and Sherlock are taken to a cottage a few hundred metres from the main house. The room is basic - two wooden bunk beds, a wardrobe, a large stock of candles ' _for all these power outs we keep getting with the storms_ ' and a small toilet with a shower. The sheets are clean but mismatched in print pattern. 

John thinks it's cosy, Sherlock is too busy cooking up military intelligence conspiracy theories to give his opinion. He lets John handle the practicalities which hardly surprises John. On the rare occasions when Sherlock agrees to accompany him to the bank, to Tesco's or to some other errand he will mostly pace around nervously, expecting John to sort everything out quickly so that they can return to more worthwhile pastimes such as Sherlock lying on the livingroom sofa in his dressing gown, 'thinking'. John has caught him snoring on occasion upon returning home, but _only_ between cases, and _only_ when he thinks John is out of the house for the rest of the day.

 

 

They spend several hours interviewing various locals and visiting the shop of a local knitting society, since Sherlock is convinced knitting societies in small villages are cesspools of conspiracy and rife with pertinent gossip.

While Sherlock puts on the charm to woo out the secrets from the elderly lady manning the shop, John browses the collection of goods on sale, and ends up being charmed enough to buy one of the cardigans. It's strange how traveling loosens one's purse strings. He has half a mind to send Mycroft Holmes a postcard, but he doesn't have the man's address. He shares his idea with Sherlock, who sternly forbids John from encouraging his brother. Encouraging him to do _what exactly_ is left hazy. Meddle in their lives?

At their next stop, the village's community centre, a haggard man informs them that aliens visit the island on a regular basis, and anything strange that's going on must be a result of their shenanigans. John chuckles when he follows the descent of Sherlock eyebrows during his conversation with the man. The sherlockian eyeroll that manifests after the eclectic finally leaves them alone is nothing short of glorious.

As they walk back to their lodgings, Sherlock takes off his heavy coat and carries it tucked under his arm. The weather is windy, it's only a few degrees above celsius zero and as far as John knows Sherlock always, _always_ wears his coat outdoors. 

This gives rise to some of John's own conspiracy theories together with the fact that Sherlock has been somewhat fidgety all day. Sherlock would probably fervently deny that anything is going on but John allows himself to indulge in his own conspiracy theories. Doctor's prerogative - he's not as unobservant as Sherlock has repeatedly accused him of being.

They dine in the farmhouse: passable salmon soup and fresh bread. Sherlock is lost in thought during their meal while John talks to the farm owner's daughter, Augusta, who is acting as their waitress. She informs them there's a storm warning announced for the following days. John then inquires about local nature while scarfing down his dessert apple pie. Sherlock occasionally pokes his own portion with his spoon as if it were some strange dead sea creature, and in the end only deigns to swallow down the whipped cream on top. To John this is nothing new. What little Sherlock eats at home he has usually scrutinized carefully first, as though he's certain it's radioactive or at least laced with arsenic.

When Augusta leaves with their plates, Sherlock yawns. "Don't bother with the flirting, John. She's engaged and planning to move away from here."

John's expression is a mixture of slight disappointment and curiosity. He dabs his mouth with a paper napkin. "Oh _go on then_. I know you want to," he says.

Sherlock steeples his fingers under his chin and regards John with a mischievous look in his eyes. The _game is on_. Though this is just the farm league version of it, Sherlock does so enjoy flaunting his intellect. "Protein bars in the bin below the reception desk. Unusual snack for someone living in such a tradition-minded community. They're not sold in the village shop, so she must've ordered them from mainland. I doubt any other person in the household than the twentysomething daughter would be familiar with such preparations. Why? Why would she buy these?"

"Fitness enthusiast?"

Sherlock purses his lips. "Even you can do better than that, John. Look at her build. BMI within normal range, but countours not suggestive of regular exercise with clearly-defined goals. Why would an islander girl with a reasonable figure try and lose weight? What sorts of magazines and websites would have given her such an idea for a dietary method - meal replacement with proteins?"

John crunches his napkin into a ball. He both enjoys and dreads these moments when Sherlock uses his purported ignorance to assert the superiority of his own intelligence and to ruin his chances of getting a date. 

Augusta would have been a long shot anyway - it would be largely pointless to start dating someone living such a distance from London. Still, he liked flirting and if the objects of it like it, too, then what's the harm? Judging by Sherlock's reactions, there is apparently something wrong even with such innocent social conduct. John hasn't quite grasped the reasons behind it but one thing is clear - Sherlock employs his ability to evict women from John's vicinity almost gleefully. Are these deliberate acts of war, or does Sherlock genuinely not realize what he is doing? As far as John is concerned, the jury is still out on that one.

"Weddings, John! Obviously she's been exposed to commercialized mainland wedding culture. Were she marrying a local she probably would not have fallen prey to such expectations. Further proof of the groom being an outsider was that I noticed her flexing her fingers as if a ring was there which means that she's worn one and it's likely it's being fitted or perhaps a wedding ring is being fashioned after an engagement one. There is no goldsmith here, which complicates things, but an heirloom ring could have been an obvious solution, not going to the mainland for a ring."

"You're making the locals sound more primitive than they probably are. I'm sure TV and movies haven't left local women deprived of the modern wedding industry."

"Mm. Still, being aware of it doesn't equal embracing it insofar as the older generations think it pointless. Their opinion still likely carries gravitas in such close-knit communities. Since she's likely marrying an outsider and thinking in these terms when it comes to the wedding, I'd say they are not planning on living here. She also acted friendly and did not counter your attempts at courtship - additional proof that she isn't worried about Mr Right seeing her interact with you."

"My _attempts_ at courtship?" John tries to sound affronted but he isn't, really, since this is merely Sherlock calling things by their proper names as he always does.

Like ' _intercourse_ '. As in 'will you be having it in the next two hours or am I allowed to stay and do case research on autoerotic asphyxiation and gastroenteritis in the kitchen?' _That_ date of John's had ended less then three minutes after.

Sherlock lays his palms onto the dining table and shift in his seat, a momentary shadow of discomfort passing through his facial features when he leans briefly into his chair. "The straightened spine, the pulling in of the excessive abdominal fat deposit you are convinced you possess, the oozingly polite smiles and the sudden interest in the moss colours of Scottish isles even though you normally _zone out_ , so to speak, when I try to engage you in a botanic discourse. I could extend this list but I think that covers some of the basics."

"It's getting dark. Let's head to our room," John says with a sour note in his tone. 

They leave the dining area and go to the reception area to put on their coats. As though trying to prove some sort of a point, John lingers behind to thank Augusta for the meal. 

 

 

 

After saying goodnight to their hostess, John walks back to their guest cottage. 

He is surprised to find Sherlock lying on his stomach, wearing nothing but his trousers. His white dress shirt lies abandoned on the floor. John picks it up and hangs it onto the back of a chair.

It's so chilly that John doesn't even want to discard his jumper. He rummages around to find his T-shirt and a novel he has been reading. Or _trying_ to read, more accurately. It's hard to concentrate with a mad genius performing a tangenty, neverending monologue on a nearby sofa.

Sherlock sits up and leans onto his right palm, left hand fiddling with his phone. "This case is ridiculous," he announces. 

John flings himself onto his own bunk bed and arranges the pillows so that his neck won't develop a crick while reading. The bed is surprisingly comfortable. "Why do you say that?"

"The direction from which these so-called signal lights were seen is rife with underwater rocks. No vessel of reasonabe size could negotiate those waters safely, especially not in the dark." Sherlock turns his phone so that John can see the screen: Sherlock has been browsing online versions of oceanic topography charts. "Besides, only an idiot would use visible light signals for intelligence purposes in a place such as this where people are seasoned in observing their natural surroundings."

"What about divers? Couldn't they have been dropped from a boat and then swam to the spot where the lights were seen?"

Sherlock considers this for a moment. "There are small islands in several directions from here. Why not go to any of them for signaling? What is more, the waves have been high enough recently to make signaling from the surface a rather risky and uncertain method. I'd rule out using divers. None if this makes _any sense_."

"The case came from your brother. Surely he wouldn't send us off on a wild goose chase?"

"There is little my brother wouldn't do to serve his own sinister purposes. What he could possibly be after by sending us here if not the resolution of a genuine case I can't figure out at this point."

"We continue our reconnaissance tomorrow, then?"

"Yes."

John tries to focus on his book in the dim light of the light bulb hanging from the ceiling while Sherlock continues stabbing his phone with his forefinger. After a while Sherlock sits up, crosses his legs and begins one of his case fact analysis monologues. John listens with only half an ear, but keeps getting distracted by Sherlock wildly gesturing with his hands, looking as though he is performing in some modern minimalist hand puppet theater troupe. 

When Sherlock seems to be finally finished with the regurgitation of all possibly related information he has found online - and naturally instantly memorized, he returns to fiddling with his phone. 

John sighs and gives up on reading after realizing he has now read the same page approximately seven and a half times. He glances at Sherlock. 

Sherlock is shivering slightly as though from cold, his skin looks clammy and his eyes glisten as though feverish. He still doesn't make a move to put on more clothes. 

John feels chilly even in his warmer shirt and jumper. "I'll bite," John says, "What's with the half-naked business here?"

"Clothes are distracting," Sherlock tells him without looking up from his phone.

Sherlock does have a tendency to parade around their flat in only a sheet or his dressing gown - for the first two weeks they lived together he did wear a collection of immaculately tailored suits even during late evenings, but at some point Sherlock seems to have decided to give up on being presentable when it's just the two of them at home. The claim that clothes are distracting is still somewhat confusing, since it's coming from a man who wears very complicated and somewhat restricting business suits all the time when they're on a case.

"Distracting?" John asks.

Sherlock looks put-upon as he moves his gaze from the phone to John. "There's nothing to discuss, John, so drop it."

"I'm not a mind-reader, but not an idiot either. Any particular reason you suddenly hate shirts?"

Sherlock lets his hands descend onto his lap. "Drop it."

John leans over the gap between their beds to steal a glance at Sherlock's phone. When Sherlock notices what he's doing he turns it away. 

"You're reading medical stuff. Why? Case-related?" John asks in mock ignorance. Coaxing Sherlock to correct his false assumptions sometimes works as a distraction tactic and gets the man talking.

Sherlock crosses his fingers carefully and rests his adjoined hands on his knees. "It appears I'm most likely having some sort of a hypersensitivity reaction on my back to a new solvent our dry cleaners must have switched to using. I have already sent them some scathing feedback by email."

On a scale of one to Sherlock ' _scathing_ ' probably means that the shop will shut down permanently, citing a nervous breakdown as the reason. "That'll teach them. Let me know if you need a translator for all that medical stuff."

John steals a glance at Sherlock's back. Nothing looks out of the ordinary. 

"I am quite knowledgeable both in the functions of the human body and the medical vocabulary used to describe them, John," Sherlock says coolly and turns slightly so John loses his line of sight to his back.

No ' _thanks, I will_ ' or ' _sure thing_ ' or ' _I'm fine, thanks_ ', never. Always something like this, Sherlock Holmes above the raffle with his massive intellect. God forbid even a medical doctor surpass him in any areas of scientific knowledge. John decides to abandon the subject.

They continue their reading in silence and John finally manages to get engrossed in the detective story. Hours later, when he decides he's too tired to bother to read on, he looks up to spot Sherlock having dozed off on top of the bed, his upper body goosebumped in the chilly air. 

Unusual. ' _I don't sleep during cases'_?

Since Sherlock is sleeping on top of his bedding and John doesn't want to wake him up by pulling it out, he grabs a coarse woollen blanket from the wardrobe and wraps it around Sherlock's shoulders. 

 

 

"Are you sure you want to be working today?" John asks, crossing his arms.

Sherlock ties his scarf around his neck with practiced, precise movements. He has been slightly slower to get up than he usually is, and to John he looks feverish. Sherlock has even forgone some of his usually meticulous morning routines, namely that of flossing and doing strange things to his hair, but it might also be because on this tiny island it isn't that necessary to keep up their cityfolk appearances. John thinks that even with a messier-than-usual hairdo, Sherlock will still probably stand out like a sore thumb with his public-school demeanour and gazillion pound designer coat that is way too long to be practical in a rural setting.

All in all, Sherlock looks so haggard and exhausted and _ill_ that John is considering putting his foot down and demanding a day off from their investigation.

John's side of the room is tidy whereas Sherlock's looks like the aftermath of an IED explosion. Clothes, random books and other paraphernalie lie abandoned on every horizontal surface, even on the floor. Exactly like it is at home.

This is the first time they have shared a bedroom on a case. 

John had attended school from home, but there had been sleepovers, summer camps and then the army. This holiday with Sherlock is analogous in theory - blokes lodging together out of necessity, but the experience isn't exactly comparable to John's army experiences. There is still so much he doesn't know about Sherlock, so many unanswered questions, and with Sherlock one couldn't make the usual assumptions that were a given about people who signed up for military service.

As far as John knows and has deduced, Sherlock and Mycroft had likely attended a fancy boarding school as children and thus were very used to sharing lodgings with peers. On the other hand Sherlock seemed like a very private person, and judging by what John had learned through meeting Sebastian Wilkes, Sherlock had not been one of the popular kids. In some ways Sherlock seems capable of politeness and even of being thoughtful at times concerning living together with someone, but he can also be rude, inconsiderate and haplessly ignorant of personal boundaries when he isn't making an effort. And he eats frozen peas straight out of the bag.

"Don't be ridiculous, John. It's just a mild fever, not the bubonic plague," Sherlock finally answers with a cough, shaking John out of his thoughts. 

Sherlock lingers in the open doorway while John dons his parka. It looks as though he's just letting in some fresh air but to John it appears as though he's tired and hesitant to actually leave the cottage.


	3. Chapter 3

They spend the next morning poking around the village, talking to more locals. The two of them have, right from the start of their association, seemed to naturally fall into what could be described as a good cop - bad cop act. It features a smilling John who tries to be nice and a Sherlock who insist on barging straight into the heart of the matter and insulting everyone in the process. This method is surprisingly effective in getting people to talk - if nothing else, they at least want to verbalize their sympathy for John's plight for having to spend time in the presence of a ' _someone like that_ '. Their open dismay does not seem to affect Sherlock but then again, the man clearly has formidable acting skills. To John he seems to practically flaunt his faults - employing them as a weapon before giving anyone else a chance to point them out. 

At present, Sherlock is leaning on a tree while searching online for more information on cryptography and local oceanography on his smartphone. John's phone has no signal, even though there is a new carrier tower on this very island. Figures. John thinks that Big Brother Government has fixed Sherlock up with the most elaborate mobile plan in history - probably complete with a tracking and surveillance chip inserted into the device...

Not that John thinks he could render much assistance even if he did have access to the Internet. Sherlock is currently keeping his deductions pretty much to himself. The only thing John has been able to figure out is that Sherlock is not particularly impressed with the evidence they have - or _haven't_ \- been able to gather, nor does the case actually hold much interest for him. Judging by what John has learned of Sherlock's attention span and his arbitrary and discerning scale of interest when it comes to cases, it's unsurprising that not even the premise of international espionage can keep Sherlock intrigued for long. 

 

 

At around three in the afternoon, John is beginning to get peckish. He'd eaten half a packet of Maltesers and some cheese biscuits in the morning after Sherlock insisted they didn't have time for such frivolities as taking the time to have proper breakfast at the main house.

Since _The Game Is On_ , John doubts Sherlock will be willing to reserve time for even a very late lunch, either. John is thus secretly pining for the other half of the packet of Maltesers which he'd thoughtlessly left back at the cottage.

"It's going to rain," Sherlock tells him while they stop to catch their breath next to a sheep pen after doing a brisk walk uphill. Usually Sherlock doesn't require such pauses, but the fever he's obviously still suffering from is making him look wan. He also keeps adjusting his coat and shirt as though there's something irritating crawling underneath.

"So?" John gazes out across the meadows. Some sheep are regardng them with mild alarm.

"We'd better get indoors. This case is ridiculous and I need time to think on it."

"You called that plutonium case ridiculous, too, but we still got some fun times out of that one."

Sherlock raises his brow in contemplation. "I did enjoy the look on Count Werzinger's face when you tossed that fake container out of the window. I have to admit that was inspired."

John chuckles and then rubs his face with his palm. The warmth in his muscles brought on by the brisk walk is turning into the chill of being slightly sweaty in the salty autumn sea wind. Sherlock looks as though he's beginning to shiver, too. "You don't have to blame the case, you know, if you just want to head back for a bit of rest."

Sherlock pulls up his collars. "Nonsense. We just need to regroup, refocus, gather our wits and then promptly put on a lid on this load of poppycock."

They decide that Sherlock is to head back to their lodgings while John goes to the village store to get something to eat. They've already passed the official lunch hours announced by their hosts.

 

 

The small village shop is surprisingly well stocked. The owner is even selling fresh, Scandinavian-style open roast beef sandwiches. John buys two, prepared to eat both if Sherlock refuses his. 

John cannot fathom how Sherlock has managed not to become completely emaciated prior to the two of them moving in together. Without John's constant nagging he would hardly eat a single nibble during cases, and between work periods his eating is erratic at best. Ice cream is usually John's best option to get Sherlock to eat something without realizing he's doing so. Chocolate always works, berry flavours will do at a pinch but vanilla will only earn John a lecture about the drone-like minds of the masses. One John went all out and got him a small container of Italian pistachio and apricot gelato, which Sherlock left on the counter to melt, glaring at it when he walked past the kitchen as though it was an experiment gone awry.

When John finally gets inside their cabin with his small grocery bag, he finds Sherlock in the bathroom inspecting his bare back. The man is contorting himself in almost a painful-looking manner, so that he could get a better look at something.

John peers in, looking inquisitive. "I got you lunch. What's going on?" he asks.

Sherlock turns away from him and steps closer to the back wall so that he's better lit. "You tell me, doctor."

It only takes a second to spot what has caught Sherlock's attention. Where yesterday there hada been nothing out of the ordinary visible, now stands a handsome blotchy line of fluid-filled blisters surrounded by a painfully inflamed area of skin. The whole thing is the size of two palms and it is located below Sherlock's left shoulder blade. John lays his left hand on Sherlock's shoulder while pressing his right forefinger gently onto one of the blisters. Sherlock recoils when his finger makes contact with the inflamed skin beside the blister. 

"That explains it," John announces.

" _What_?" Sherlock asks, sounding accusatory and dismayed. Usually it's _Sherlock_ who speaks in such riddles - clearly he doesn't enjoy being at the receiving end of such vague communication.

"Your recent fidgeting. What you've got there is _shingles_."

Sherlock turns slightly so that he can see his back in the bathroom mirror again. "Not possible," he replies sharply.

John looks thoughtful. "You didn't have chicken pox as a child?"

"Of course I did. At least I think so."

John is amused at his abhorrence. "Why not shingles, then? The virus stays in the body after the symptoms of chicken pox go away, and can later it can return to the skin via peripheral nerves to cause this."

Sherlock is looking at John with his usual, exasperated, ' _everybody else is an idiot_ ' -expression. "I know the pathophysiology of the varicella virus. I also knew your intellectual capabilities were limited, but this is a new low. I am not an old lady, John, I _cannot_ possibly get shingles." 

"No, you aren't but yes you can. Age is not a factor. With older people it's more common, but even children and teenagers can get it."

"Children and teenagers with immunodeficiencies."

"No, anyone. It's a myth that it requires some sort of a lack of normal immunity if you get it before you're fifty."

"Is that so?" Sherlock's tone is still challenging.

John stares him down. "Yep."

Sherlock sighs. "Oh." He sounds defeated and disappointed.

John leaves the bathroon to rummage around his shopping. "Don't worry, you're still special."

It had been just a silly quip, but somehow Sherlock now looks borderline smitten, and even agrees to eat his roast beef sandwich with only a very brief protest.

 

 

They return to the cottage late in the afternoon on Sherlock's demand that he be given quiet time to think. At home John sometimes leaves the house to run errands or to have a pint with a friend on such occasions, since during his thinking sessions Sherlock often becomes rather intolerant to sounds in the flat. He'd once even tried to ban breathing. John had thrown a balled-up sock at his head and called him a knob, which had promptly ended the argument.

When darkness falls and rain begins pelting the roof, Augusta brings them a small television with a detachable antenna and some fresh linens. She warns them that the forecast contains a severe storm warning for the area. No planes will be coming or going, and even ships are forced to stay in harbour. As to when the worst of it will hit, no one yet knows.

Augusta makes sure the cabin is fully stocked with candles, drinking water and matches and if the sight of a shirtless consulting detective is causing her any discomfort, she doesn't express it. Soon after John and Sherlock had retreated back to the cottage, Sherlock's dress shirt had been unceremoniously abandoned on the floor again and the heater cranked up to a maximum setting. John had also stripped down to just a T-shirt and jeans since the cottage was now becoming rather toasty. He wasn't about to complain, since the reason for Sherlock's shirtlessness and subsequent need for extra heating is clear: John has seen many cases of shingles and ones this extreme are a rarity in his experience. Even clothing is a source of agony on the inflamed nerve endings of the affected skin.

John makes some smalltalk with Augusta and inquires about the island's health services while Sherlock focuses on waxing dramatic on his bed and scowling in John's general direction, clearly wanting him to get rid of their hostess.

"There's just the community nurse who's also a midwife," Augusta tells John. "She's on the other side of the Isle tonight, since Julianne Edgar is having her third, but she'll be at the school tomorrow morning. Mind you, she doesn't have much prescription stuff available."

John nods and makes a mental note to at least go and take a look at the selection.

Augusta then bids them goodnight and prepares to leave. She turns on the porch lights and John keeps the door open for a moment, staring out into the dark rainy night. The wind is now strong enough to make walking in a straight line challenging.

It's no longer quiet in the cottage because of the downright violent beating of the rain on the roof. 

"What's the plan for tomorrow?"

Sherlock sits up on the bed where he had been lounging on his stomach. The blistery area on his back shines in the dim light and it looks so sore John's heart goes out to the man. Sherlock grimaces as his back twists while stretching out his arms. "To talk to the lighthouse warden. He's the only one who could possibly offer us any proof that any of the claimed suspicious activity actually happened."

"You don't think there were any signals?"

"I've established that the reports came from tourists, not locals. This makes it likely that they're just natural phenomena misinterpreted. City dwellers, out of their comfort zone, are prone to read anything they don't instantly recognize as something exotic, their imaginations coloured by pop culture depictions and aliens and espionage, some of which you, too, insist on rotting your brain with."

"Misinterpreting normal things - such as mistaking ordinary shingles for some fascinating alien parasite?"

"Very amusing. Do shut up."

John laughs.

"What I can't quite piece together is why Mycroft would want to send us out here," Sherlock muses. "These sorts of reports from hapless citizens calling the public relations numbers of government agencies must be a dime a dozen. Why give so much credence to this particular one? The only plausible reason I could think of is that there is something of importance happening in London that Mycroft wants to distract me from. _You_ wouldn't happen to know what that is, John?" Sherlock's cat-like squint of suspicion is directed at John now. 

Were John a weaker man, he'd flinch, but somehow Sherlock has never managed to properly intimidate him. "Swear to God, I don't."

Sherlock holds his breath as though trying to make up his mind, pinching the bridge of his nose, then slowly exhales with an exasperated sigh. "Considering how utterly skilless you are at subterfuge, I believe you. I would prefer to head back to London and rule this case as pointless, but it seems that weather has robbed us of the opportunity to surprise Mycroft by hastening our return."

John nods. "According to Augusta this might be a bad one. They've even named it Cyclone Mabel. I didn't know we even had hurricanes."

Sherlock coughs and John can see goosebumps for on his arms. He must be freezing but the pain on his back won't allow him to wrap anything around his shoulders. "This is not what is usually referred to as a hurricane. Besides being a synonym for typhoons and hurricanes, cyclones can also refer to the moving low-pressure zone storm systems moving along the so-called polar front which, during this time of the year, recides around the Northern Atlantic. Our delightful lady Mabel is one of these."

They wrestle with the TV antenna for a while. Its joints are loose, and it refuses to stay upright properly, but in the end they manage to find a grainy but passable BBC1 signal. John starts watching a crime drama.

Sherlock flits around the room, arranging and rearraging his things, peering under the beds and into the wardrobe, restless and irritable. After awhile he slumps down onto his bed and spreads himself out on his stomach.

John steals a glance at his half-naked torso. "That looks terrible," he says apologetically. "I'll go to the village tomorrow and see what the nurse has in her stash." 

Sherlock tugs his fingers through his sweaty and tangled curls and then leans his chin on his palms. "And you'll be able to fix this?" His feverish eyes glisten and to John he looks endearingly hopeful and younger than his years. 

John resists a sudden, strange urge to tuck an errant curl behind Sherlock's ear. 

"I can't really ' _fix it_ ', as you so eloquently put it."

"What on Earth am I supposed to do with it, then?"

"Ride it out, and whatever you do, don't scratch the blisters and then touch your eyes."

"Why?" Sherlock asks.

"If the virus infects your cornea we'll need to get you to an ophtalmologist appointment stat to make sure it doesn't get into your optical nerve." 

Sherlock looks as though this has been a sobering thought. He also looks a bit guilty, so John congratulates himself for nipping _that_ potential bad habit in the bud.

John looks at him reassuringly. "Once it's run its course it'll stop on its own. Always does."

Sherlock's eyes go wide. "Are you saying this torture will last longer than until tomorrow?" He looks genuinely alarmed.

John drags himself up to his feet and puts his two fingers on Sherlock's wrist. His pulse is slightly irregular and very, very fast. John realizes that it's probably not just the fever that's raising it - it's the pain, too, causing extra beats.

John goes to his suitcase - which Sherlock had made John carry along with his own while he'd just strutted along the village road like a peacock - and finds a couple of tablets of paracetamol. He pours Sherlock a glass of water and presents his offerings.

Sherlock regards them with slight disbelief. " _Paracetamol_? First you mistake me for an old lady, now you try to offer me children's remedies?"

"It's all I've got. As I said, I'll go see the nurse tomorrow, but she probably doesn't have much fancier options and the storm has ensured that we're not getting anywhere with a decent clinic for at least two nights."

Sherlock drags himself up to a sitting position, swallows the tablets with the water and then regards John with a resigned expression. "I can't sleep," he whines. "I never sleep on my stomach."

John almost says ' _I know_ ', but stops because to him it somehow sounds a tad intimate, as statements go. "You haven't even tried," he comments instead. He then takes the empty glass to the bathroom and fills it up again. He puts it on the nightstand next to Sherlock's bed.

"I don't need to try in order to know that I'm going to freeze and not sleep," Sherlock argues, his shoulders sagging.

"How bad is it?" John asks, nodding at Sherlock's back.

"Like a branding iron."

John sits down next to him on the bed to take a closer look. There isn't much he can do for Sherlock at this point beyond keeping company. He gives Sherlock's shoulders a gentle squeeze, trying not to brush up against the affected skin. "It's not going to kill you."

"If it gets worse that might be a disappointment."

John gives him a dirty look. They sit quietly for a moment, John not really knowing what to do - let go of the pale, bony shoulders and return to his own bed, or stay for a while longer. He doesn't even quite know how to gauge whether there is something awkward to this scenario or not. If there is, then it seems to have at least escaped Sherlock's attention. Or has it? He's a tremendously good actor, but something tells John Sherlock doesn't really have the energy of the patience to compose himself to that extent right now.

Sherlock's eyes have drifted closed and slowly his breathing begins to slow and deepen and he begins leaning onto John's arms more and more. Realizing what's going on, John lets the man's head and shoulders carefully descend towards the bed, but instead of landing on the duvet covering the mattress, his head somehow ends up on John's thighs. 

John is just about to extricate himself when Sherlock lets out a contended sort of a sigh, turns around and buries his nose into John's T-shirt. Soon there's a quiet snoring coming from the direction of John's bellybutton. 

What is he to do? He doesn't have the heart to wake Sherlock, and how could this possibly be awkward when only one of them is awake? 

John decides to let him sleep and leans backwards so he can rest his own back against the wall. He dozes off after a few minutes, head drooping towards his left shoulder.

 

 

 

John wakes up three hours later to find his lap and the rest of the room empty. The TV is showing nothing but a blizzard of black and white dots. Sounds are, however, coming from the direction of the closed bathroom door. "Sherlock?" John asks and squints, as the darkness is suddenly pierced by bright light when the bathroom door opens. "Do you need something?" 

Sherlock switches off the bathroom light and returns to the bedroom without a word. He pauses to stand beside the bed they'd shared. John can't make out his expression. 

John scrambles up, moves to his own bunk, lets his head hit the pillow and doesn't wake up until the next morning.


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning, Sherlock turns into a mound of blankets and refuses breakfast. 

John, unsurprised that he's forced to brave the hurricane-level wind and icy rain alone, walks to the farmhouse in the hopes of a nice fry-up. The electricity comes and goes, but thanks to the old wood-burning stove in the estates he is treated to a full English breakfast by the owners after all.

John briefly considers at least attempting to take a walk, but when he glances out of the entrance hall window an hour later he spots an upturned umbrella whizzing past the house on the road towards the village. He finds it peculiar that he used to think about Mary Poppins when he saw umbrellas but nowadays the face of Mycroft Holmes pops into his head instead. 

Thankfully the distance between the farm estate and the village school, where the local nurse keeps her stash of medications, is less than half a kilometre. John gets only moderately soaked en route.

"Let's see... we've got a thermometer, some Winnie the Pooh plasters, paracetamol and a packet of Valtrex mere months past its date," the nurse tells him after hearing what the ailment requiring aid is. John is disappointed to find that she doesn't have any kind of neuropathic pain medications available.

"The older folks who get shingles 'round these parts trust their grannie's remedies. They don't queue up for any of the proper stuff," Nurse Beatrice sighs. "Besides, I can't be doling much out without a prescription. The nearest clinic with a doctor is on mainland."

John requests the thermometer, the Valtrex and the paracetamol - the small packet he'd brought with him has already run out - and gracefully thanks the nurse for her meagre offerings. 

John then returns to their lodgings. "Still no boats or planes to mainland, I take it?" he inquires from the lady of the house, currently manning the reception desk.

She smiles apologetically. "I'm afraid not. I hope you're not missing work because of this."

"This actually is work, in a way."

The woman raises her eyebrows curiously.

"Sherlock - my flatmate, that is," John hastens to specify, "solves crimes. I help out and I guess I've become sort of his biographer."

"I've not heard of any recent crimes here," the woman says dismissively.

John tries to create an unarming smile. "It's more of a mystery we've come here to look at. Can't go into much detail, I'm afraid, but I can assure you it shouldn't pose any kind of harm to anyone here as far as I can tell."

"Well, as long as you folks know what you're doing."

John almost requests the day's newspaper but then realizes it's probably not available due to the storm cutting off connections to the mainland. He thanks the woman, wraps his parka tightly around himself and braves the wind again to return to their cottage.

There he finds Sherlock asleep, sweat-matted curls spread on the pillow. He looks feverish again.

John sits down on his own bunk bed. He can't help watching Sherlock, even though he knows the man would hate such an intrusion of his privacy. 

Or would he really? After the first couple of weeks of their living together, during which they both had clearly tried to be on their best behaviour, Sherlock had seemed to stop caring about personal boundaries, the time of the day and about not touching John's personal items. In some ways, Sherlock had adopted a ' _share everything_ ' policy, but it didn't exactly extend to his own possessions. God forbid John mess up his sock index or move any of his papers around.

A Sherlock in deep sleep creates a strange contrast to an awake Sherlock in John's eyes. Usually Sherlock is a light sleeper, convinced that the smallest of noises in the night might entail the arrival of terrorists, burglars or other such welcome distractions from wasting time on sleeping. 

This time, even though John manages to bang his foot on a chair leg which certainly creates a racket, Sherlock doesn't even stir. With Sherlock's restless mind switched to off mode, to John he looks positively angelic with his delicate features and unruly cloud of curls. He looks younger than his years, without a care in the world.

John's thoughts drift back to the previous evening. Sherlock had happily curled up in John's lap with no regard to the usual boundaries of what flatmates were allowed to do. Perhaps these sorts of issues genuinely never occur to Sherlock. Does he experience embarrassment or shame as often as others do? John has only such an emotion drift across his features once, when Sebastian Wilkes had reminded Sherlock of their university days. Those memories clearly hadn't been happy ones.

On the other hand, Sherlock is quite ill. In John's experience as a doctor and as an occasional patient himself, illness strips most people of their roles, takes away carefully constructed facades and makes everyone less patient and thus more honest. Illness also makes people lonely and miserable, yearning for companionship and consolation. 

Had Sherlock chosen him as a flatmate right off the bat, because John had seemed flexible, accommodating and convenient? Or where there other, more significant factors that had led Sherlock, the embodiment of suspicion and distrust, to accept John into his daily life without a moment's hesitation?

 

 

Sherlock sleeps most of the day. John reads a book he's borrowed from the lounge room in the main house, while keeping vigil over the cottage. The windows rattle with the strength of the wind, yet Sherlock hardly stirs. 

In the afternoon, the light outside begins to dim as darker thunderclouds are replacing the light grey skies that have produced but a drizzle. John has to strain his eyes to read, and he puts the book down. He moves from his own bed to sit in the only chair in the door. 

He lights a candle and lets his mind wander while watching the shadows in the corners flicker with the flame.

After an hour of silent contemplation there's a moan from under the swaddle of Sherlock's blankets. "It hurts," is the whiny demand that follows. Sherlock then sits up, eyes glassy from the fever and unfocused from fatigue.

"Try not to think about it. Wallowing in it will only make you feel worse," John tells him in what he hopes is an encouraging tone. 

He offers Sherlock a paracetamol which the man dismisses with a irritable handflick.

"Was that the kind of medical advice you might dish out to a soldier with a bullet stuck somewhere?" Sherlock asks his in an indignant tone, running his hand through his messy hair and grimacing when he encounters a bird-nest like tangle. "Grin and bear it?"

"Not comparable."

Sherlock lets his hand drop, which makes the candle flicker again. "If this isn't a notorious enough ailment, then _fix it_!"

"Not possible."

"You're a war surgeon, John, isn't this your forte: creating modern medicine out of twigs and sand? Making do?"

"Most of the things I know that could help at least a little I don't really have access to right now." 

Sherlock scoffs at him, staring him down like he has gravely offended the man. 

Trust Sherlock to manage to start derailing all the favourable thoughts John had been having of the man all day. It's understandable and so very human that he'd take his frustrations out on John, but he's growing tired and vexed as well due to all this waiting.

"If this is all so beneath you, then _get me a better doctor!_ " Sherlock wails in frustration, reaching around his torso to scrape his fingers along his upper back. He nearly yelps when his fingers make contact with the red blisters. 

John explodes. The language he uses during the following minutes is enough to make Sherlock gape. John makes it perfectly clear what he thinks about the unjust demands placed on him at the moment, and reminds Sherlock of some previous occasions during which a little more tact and self-censorship could have been utilized, sparing everyone affected from a lot of grief. Like that one time two months prior, mid-case, when Sherlock had been in one of his restless, ' _cease existing so that I can think_ ' -moods. When John had been emptying his bladder in the bathroom, there had been a sharp knock on the door, followed by a demand to explain what on earth he was supposedly doing.

"Take a bloody guess," John had retorted from behind the door. The reply he'd received had been an uppity demand to do it 'differently', because it was 'distracting'. 

John had suggested he might, in the future, abandon the toilet in lieu of one of Sherlock's 800-quid Italian shoes. Sherlock had countered this with an indignant grunt and by banging shut his bedroom door.

That is exactly what Sherlock would likely do right this moment, if he only had access to such a private space. Since they were stuck in this glorified dorm hall of a hotel room, Sherlock is forced to hear John's outburst in its entirety.

Sherlock holds up a finger. "John---"

" _I. AM. NOT. FINISHED!_ "

"John, hear me out," Sherlock says from under the blanket he has burrowed underneath again, careful not to lean his sore back on the wall, "I am tired, unable to rest, bored and in pain and you're the only one present who could possibly render any sort of aid so _please_ do cease your yelling." 

That is almost... stunningly honest. John tries to calm down and finds himself succeeding, distracted from his ire by te sudden proof that Sherlock's vocabulary does, in fact, contrary to popular opinion, contain the word 'please', spoken in a non-sardonic manner. 

John realizes he's almost as tired as Sherlock looks. 

They need to get off this bloody island. They'd solved one major argument, but Sherlock isn't likely to start feeling better in the next couple of days, and John's patience might completely run out.

"Right," John says and dons his parka.

"Where are you---" Sherlock tries to enquire with a small, worried voice, but John is already out the door.

 

 

 

After his call to Mycroft produces no useful results, John finds himself walking back towards their cottage, hands in his coat pockets.

The bed and breakfast owner's daughter Augusta runs after him and passes John a paper bag. "Just some sandwiches. Power's likely going to be gone for a while again so we need to clear out the fridge, everything will spoil - the backup generator's been hit by lightning and it won't start. I'm sorry that this is all we can do for dinner."

Rainwater dripping from the ends of his hair strands, John manages a half-smile. "Don't worry about it."

Augusta flashes him a smile and runs back to the house. John pulls down the hood of his parka, tucks the paper bag under his arm and walks the hundred or so metres back to their cottage. The rain has paused momentarily, and the brisk wind seems to help clear his head.

He keeps his eyes on the ground as the rocky terrain is hard to negotiate in the darkness. Once he reaches the steps up to the cottage door he looks up and nearly bumps into Sherlock, who is standing on the front steps in the freezing rain - still shirtless.

John's mouth turns into a determined like. "No you bloody don't," he mutters, opens the door and manhandles his shivering cottagemate inside. 

John puts the paper bag on the floor near the wardrobe. The candle is still the only light in the room, creating dancing shadows on the walls as the draft from the door makes the flame flicker violently. 

"What were you thinking, standing out there? I can't believe I need to even tell you this but you're going to catch your death without clothes on," John berates Sherlock, who is standing near the doorway, shivering and looking miserable. "You can't catch _a death_ , there isn't really a singular or plural for it. You can catch a disease which might _lead_ to death---"

"Alright, alright. Just shut up, you clot." John eyes him indignantly while stripping off his dripping parka. 

Sherlock sits down on his bed and straightens his pillow. "Do you refer to all your patients with such derogatory terms?" He asks, sounding quite serious.

John snorts but can't help smiling a bit. Just a bit. "No, because they don't usually present with such colossal cases of idiocy. Why on earth would you go outside like that?"

"You left emotionally distressed. I was-- worried," Sherlock explains sheepishly.

John opens the paper bag and digs out two sandwiches. As usual, Sherlock refuses his, so John eats them both sitting on his own bed. "It's me who should be worrying about you. I thought you'd gone mental, standing out there with a fever like that."

Sherlock leans his elbows onto the pillow he has arranged on his knees. "I'm cold."

John stands up and grabs Sherlock's duvet, wrapping it around the man's shoulders as carefully as he can. Sherlock grimaces and shakes it off. At least he accepts his due dose of Valtrex - it's only outdated by two months and John reasons that it can't have possibly spoiled in that amount of time. Besides, if they don't make use of it, the paracetamol is all they have.

"Still cold," Sherlock moans after he's gulped down the Valtrex tablets.

John has an epiphany. He goes to the wardrobe and brings out his shopping bag. Sherlock peers into it curiously and then gives John an inquisitive glance when he recognizes the contents.

John grins. "You told me to get a new one, so--" He digs out a button-up cream cardigan with a cross-like geometrical pattern in the front. He unbuttons it and helps Sherlock stick his hands into it so that he's wearing it backwards. This leaves his blistered and sore back bare, but at least his front is now warmer. The sleeves are short and since it's the wrong way around it looks silly, but John refuses to care. "There you go," he says proudly.

"A perfunctory attempt but better than nothing," Sherlock declares. 

John spreads his arms in defeat. "I do try."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to conclude our nice little saga of jumpers, espionage, shingles and storm warnings. I hope you have enjoyed it. It's time to find out what on Earth is - or isn't - transpiring on Cairn Isle.
> 
> A word on my future literary adventures in the ending notes.

  
  


Around midnight John wins his third consecutive round of Battleships and pumps his fist in the air in celebration. Sherlock regards him with a look of deep disdain.

"Oh come on," John teases, "I seriously doubt you were Mr Modest when you won a game against a friend as a kid."

"My only regular opponent was Mycroft, who usually won. Then there was chess club at Eton, but displays of strong emotion were not part of that scene."

"Figures that you would play chess. Were you any good?"

"I never found out. I was booted out of the club, if you must know."

"What happened?"

Sherlock shrugs. "I suggested a more structured training plan. I failed to realize the other students had joined the club in order to have fun, not to maximize their chances of tournament victories."

John frowns. "Surely you played some other games with your friends, then, as a kid?"

"Not really." There is something evasive in Sherlock's gaze and John is reminded of the way he'd acted in the presence of Sebastian Wilkes. "I did not exactly have the luxury of friends, John."

"Never?"

Sherlock's mouth tightens into a line. John realizes his questions have hit a nerve. 

"I had Mycroft."

"Brothers don't count. Surely you had schoolmates you hung out with?" John insists.

Sherlock leans onto his outstrecthed arms, his palms on the mattress behind his back. "I never understood that term. School is for obtaining an education, not for idling away with pointless acquaintances."

John has many follow-up questions, but judging by Sherlock's evasive and borderline embarrassed expression he decides to put a lid on the interrogation. On the other hand, he doesn't want to just coldly abandon the subject - something is making Sherlock uncomfortable, which means that this is _important_.

After a moment of uncomfortable silence, John swallows. "I could be one, you know," he says quietly. It sounds a bit silly - don't flatmates usually fulfil the criteria of being friends at least on some level? He's not used to saying such things out loud to his mates, but Sherlock isn't really like any of them. Sherlock isn't like _anyone_ he's ever met, period. The usual rules don't apply.

Sherlock looks as though John has announced he's going to sign up for cordless bungee jumping. "What do you mean?"

"I'm just saying... In a way, we already sort of are friends, aren't we? We just haven't even talked about it like this." John tells him, annoyed how much he's mincing his words. 

"You _pity_ me?" Sherlock looks suspicious, and he's practically scanning John's face, attempting to parse every nuance in his expression.

"No, you daft sod. Way to whoop my ass with my own olive branch. I enjoy doing things with you, is all. Isn't that how it is for friends?"

Sherlock looks very sceptical. "It would not serve anyone well to befriend me."

"Everyone deserves a friend," John counters.

Sherlock is looking at him incredulously, as though John were a little bit naive. "I am rude, inconsiderate, selfish and it's hard to maintain my interest. Not conducive to friendships. Besides, you already serve as my flatmate and sort of my doctor. I wouldn't want to burden you with additional duties."

John snorts. "It's not a job, Sherlock. Besides, a good friend will overlook the occasional rudeness."

"May I remind you that than four hours have passed since you called Mycroft to beg him to get you out of here."

"I didn't call him to get away from _you_ \- I tried to get both of us off this sodding island because I'm tired, you're ill and I want nothing more than I want to get the both of us back to our sitting room, enjoying a cuppa while having a fire going. I snapped at you because I got frustrated at this whole thing, not because I don't want to, _you know_." John decides that he has bared his proverbial underbelly enough here that he's allowed a bit of safe vagueness now.

Sherlock doesn't seem to be able to come up with a snappy retort. He doesn't even demand clarification to John's sentence. He blinks in a distracted manner that John has learned to recognize as something he does when he's confused and doesn't know what to do.

Still, Sherlock looks as though he might be in a better mood now. He's smiling slightly as he begins picking on an errand strand sticking out of his duvet. He looks lost in thought, and John is certain he's picking apart the conversation they've just had even though he hadn't seemed enthusiastic to continue it.

John suggests they dust off an old edition of Trivial Pursuit Sherlock had located on the top of their wardrobe the day before, and Sherlock agrees. He does exceptionally well in all the science questions, but John's knowledge of pop culture, current issues and sports is Sherlock's undoing. 

Sherlock declares the game both rigged and ridiculous.

 

 

Sherlock's fever spikes during the night. John wakes up to a heavy thud and his name being spoken out loud: Sherlock has proceeded to fall out of his bed. John flings his duvet away and leaps down to help him up. He's is shaking and swaying on his feet even after John grabs hold of him by curling an arm around his waist. 

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" John chides.

"John, the case --" Sherlock starts, looking indignant at John's purported ignorance and lack of telepathy, "the case is utter haberdashery," he concludes.

John purses his lips but can't help a small smile. "Whatever you say." He touches the back of his hand to Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock tries to evade but is too sluggish.

High fever.

"Okay, back to bed with you," John announces.

"No. I need to urinate," Sherlock argues after a moment of consideration. 

"I appreciate the eloquent announcement," John snorts. He reaches out to click on the ceiling light and peers into Sherlock's eyes which look back at him almost cross-eyed. "God, you're such a lightweight when sick. Lightweight altogether. Would you consider doing it in an empty water bottle? I'll have to practically carry you to the loo and back otherwise."

Sherlock swallows. "Absolutely not." 

John slowly lets go of him, and Sherlock is forced to grab onto a wall to avoid toppling down. Clearly, an escort for the journey to the loo is required.

"If you refuse to help, I'll have you know that crawling is a perfectly acceptable means in which to negotiate even terrain such as tiled floor," Sherlock announces, shaking his head vigorously as if to repel the fevery gaze that's obviously slowing down his thinking but not so much his tongue.

John drapes Sherlock's arm around his shoulders and puts his own around the man's waist, pulling his closer. Sherlock's T-shirt is damp with sweat, his curls greasy, but John allows himself to bask in the warmth of his fever as the night air in the cabin feels frigidly cold. 

After hauling what is practically the full weight of Sherlock Holmes to the bathroom, John waits behind the half-closed door as Sherlock relieves himself, emitting obscene groans in the process. A minute later, there's the sound of the tap running, some colourful cursing and spluttery coughing. John deduces Sherlock had drank from the tap, which requires a rather complicated head-turning maneuver. In his current state it can't have been easy.

When Sherlock emerges - or more accurately, stumbles out - from the bathroom, John grabs hold of him again. 

Sherlock is breathing straight into his ear with his eyes closed. "This is quite - - John is useful, you know. He's loyal. Not too concerned about hoovering. Tolerable. Quite dashing, really - -" He muses.

John rolls his eyes. "I've no idea who you're trying to share all this vital information with but thanks, I guess." He has to adjust his hold as they negotiate their way around Sherlock's bed. It's hard to find a suitable spot to hold onto due to their physical differences."You need more weight but a lot less height, I tell you."

Sherlock looks at him, clearly horrified at this declaration.

John huffs. "Don't look at me like I'm going to start hacking pieces off you."

He carefully drops his flatmate onto his bed and watches Sherlock struggle with the duvet. It ends up sideways, with Sherlock's sock-clad toes peeking from underneath. John fixes the whole thing.

Sherlock turns to his side, grimacing as he pulls the duvet up under his armpits. "As for the case: I've ruled out aliens."

"I'm relieved and I'm sure Mycroft will be most disappointed. I knew you could crack it," John replies.

Sherlock smiles at him. It's not one of his usual crooked, calculated and victorious smiles but a somewhat perplexed, very happy and genuine-looking one. Its a little lop-sided, and John finds himself actually associating the word ' _adorable_ ' with Sherlock Holmes. Unexpected.

This is Sherlock, unfiltered by the manners he has chosen to make use of in trying to keep others at bay and to mentally precide over every scene he enters. This is Sherlock, plain and simple without any playacting or protecive grandeur, and John is the only one allowed to witness it. There's a fragile sort of trust very much at play here which John is now acutely aware of - even though Sherlock's fever is hindering his thinking, John is somehow pretty certain he would have removed himself from the presence of anyone else in this state. 

Anyone except John. 

After sitting up for a few moments to make sure there isn't anything else Sherlock needs, John collapses into a heap of bones on his own bed and falls asleep almost instantaneously.  
At some point during the night Sherlock wakes him up, looking for his blanket which is now on the floor and John covers him with it again, careful not to press on the glistening blisters on his back.

Doing such things for a friend should feel strange, awkward even, but it doesn't. John wonders if it's because he's a doctor, and concludes that while his medical training might play a role here, mostly it gives him little pause just because this is _Sherlock_.

 

 

In the morning, Augusta fetches John to the phone. Never before has he been ecstatic to hear the lilting baritone of Mycroft Holmes at the other end of the line.

The gist of the call is that they have been secured seats in the first plane out now that the storm is abating.

Back at their cottage, John tells the news to a bleary-eyed but coherent Sherlock. 

They pack up their things. Sherlock makes some phone calls to a couple of locals regarding the case - as far as John can tell it's to make sure he hasn't missed anything but also just to pass the time. Sherlock then calls Mycroft on his mobile to triumphantly announce that the case is ' _utter poppycock_ ' and that the _next_ time his big brother would like to send them off on a wild goose chase, he will be politely suggested to shove the entire Palace of Westminster up his rear anatomy. 

John chuckles while eavesdropping. He raises his brows when Sherlock ends the phone call wearing a confounded expression.

"He was not surprised at my conclusions. As a matter of fact, he seemed _amused_ ," Sherlock announces resentfully.

"The plot thickens," John says and zips up his suitcase.

 

 

 

They arrive home some twenty-four hours later. 

The Valtrex seems to be having at least some sort of an effect on Sherlock's condition and thus his mood, and John had managed to obtain a packet of amitriptyline from a pharmacy in Edinburgh during their flight layover - hopefully it will prevent the pain Sherlock is still feeling from turning into a long-term issue.

Once they've closed the flat door behind them Sherlock decends onto the couch without bothering to take off his coat and turns to his side. He closes his eyes, looking more relieved than John ever remembers seeing him. John drags their suitcases to their respective bedrooms. Sherlock's is a mess, as always, and it's hard to find an empty spot on the floor for the suitcase.

The noise John has been making by dragging things around attracts Mrs Hudson, who soon pops her head through the door, looking strangely smug. John offers her tea, which she declines, opting instead of hover excitedly in the kitchen in manner that makes John suspicious.

Sherlock does not appear suspicious. He appears to be snoring instead.

John puts the kettle on because he wants tea, and doesn't care whether anyone else is having it or not. Just as he's about to get the milk from the fridge there's a knock on the door. Had John looked out the window, he would have spotted that there is now a black car parked in front of the building.

Soon Mycroft appears, exchanging a downright conspiratory greeting with Mrs Hudson before saying hello to John.

Sherlock stirs at the sound of his brother's voice. He drags himself up from the sofa, divests his coat and crosses his arms, leaning onto a wall by the coat rack. "Out with it," he urges his brother.

Mycroft peers towards the hallway that leads to Sherlock's bedroom and the bathroom. "I gather neither of you have used the amenities yet since you came home?"

"Here in the 21st century we call it a bathroom," John mutters and Sherlock awards his efforts with an appreciative glance.

Mrs Hudson beams. "Oh, you'll like it, I'm sure, once you get used to all the newness!"

Sherlock's gaze narrows. He glares daggers at his brother, his hand flying to his back, a muscle in which seems to be twitching under his dress shirt after something has probably unexpectedly touched the inflamed area. 

He then strides into the bathroom, John trailing behind. 

His eyes widen at the door.

Their old bathroom, with its cosily leaking faucet, interesting black mold in the corners, vintage shower curtain and atmospherically creaking old cabinet doors has been completely transformed. The old bathtub is nowhere to be seen - in its place is now a modern shower cubicle with frosted glass walls. A new, black tub has been fitted between the window and the cubicle. A set of crisp white towels have been arranged onto a brand new cabinet made of dark wood. There's a new, wider basin with a shining chrome faucet and a large mirror that has been slightly tilted so it overhangs the faucet slightly, bringing in more light in the area.

"I hope you weren't running any active experiments in the old one," John says. 

Sherlock scoffs and then turns his now wrathful gaze onto his brother and his landlady. " _You traitors did this behind my back._ "

Mrs Hudson looks apologetic but does not shie away from Sherlock's indignation. "I told you only last month that both the hole in the livingroom wall and the bathroom need to be repaired and modernized, lest the festering damp get into wall structures. All you ever say to these things is that everything is fine and I should stop distracting you with ridiculous useless things but this is my property, Sherlock, and these things concern John as well. You promised to talk to him but I suspect you never did."

John glances at Sherlock, shaking his head. 

His mad flatmate had probably forgotten about the whole thing the very minute Mrs Hudson had stopped talking. He makes such promises all the time just to get people off his back.

"I mentioned the issue to your brother when he was last visiting," Mrs Hudson explains. 

Mycroft looks smug, his back straight as he leans his palms on his ever-present umbrella. John wonders why he hadn't left it in the foyer. "Judging by the ruckus Sherlock caused even over the installation of a functioning fire alarm in the kitchen without seeking his prior consent, we thought it best to formulate this little plan," he explains and then looks at Mrs Hudson, prompting her to continue.

"When it became clear you wouldn't allow the wall to be fixed or the bathroom redone while you were here Mr Holmes suggested we might make it a birthday present - get the bathroom fixed and to send you boys off for a little holiday," Mrs Hudson explains proudly, "A crime and mystery one!"

"Sherlock would likely suffer a stroke, were he forced to endure a normal, relaxing holiday. I thought it best to provide entertainment," Mycroft adds.

"So Sherlock was right, you did knowingly send us off on a wild goose chase?" John asks rhetorically. Mycroft frowns at him in his usual condescending manner, looking as though John is a gnat whining in his ear. 

Usually this would make John want to smack Sherlock's big brother around the ears, but the gleaming, clean, beautiful bathroom before his eyes does alleviate the pain of having to endure the man's presence.

John knows Sherlock isn't likely to politely say thank-you to his brother, but even Sherlock surely has to admit their new bathroom looks quite grand. Due to Sherlock's ridiculously long morning grooming rituals he's the one likely to benefit the most from this ploy.

"Regrettably your holiday was somewhat hampered by the weather, but I do hope you had an enjoyable time flexing your deductive muscles," Mycroft says politely. "I assumed that it would take you at least three days to realize the case was a hoax, judging by your usual level of performance," he adds, hinting with his tone that it might be somewhat inferior to his own.

"What if we had come home earlier than anticipated?" John asks.

The renovations would have already been well underway. I would have made sure they got finished," Mycroft says in a tone John suspects he uses when warning off people. 

"I wouldn't put it past Mycroft to actually have arranged for the bloody hurricane, too," Sherlock mutters and John laughs. 

 

**\- The End -**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've not been resting on my laurels lately - I have three stories in the works. The next one will be a quirky little three-chapter humour piece called "Paying The Piper".
> 
> After that, it's time for the boys to do some more traveling, but fun it ain't gonna be. All in all, the stuff I have in drafting phase will mark a return to my usual genre - that being gritty medical realism.
> 
> A debt is owed to 7percent with her skilled assistance in plothole plugging.


End file.
